


Snapshots

by LectorEl



Series: Made by Hand [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectorEl/pseuds/LectorEl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short moments set in the universe of 'Family, Made by Hand'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshots

**The Recruitment of Carolyn Woosan**

Janet eyed the tired slump of Carolyn’s shoulders, and wordlessly took the bottle of aged brandy out of its hiding place behind the false back of the safehouse’s kitchen cabinet. She poured glasses for them both, topping them off generously.

“The CIA is opposed to underage drinking, even from their underage agents, so don’t tell anyone,” Janet said, passing Carolyn one of the tumblers.

“Why do I want to work for them, again?” Carolyn asked, taking the tumbler gratefully and sipping at the alcohol gingerly.

“Protection.” Janet sat down across the rickety table from her new student, pulling her gun kit out from beneath the table. “There’s no guarantee Cain won’t decide to try again, once he realizes you’re alive. And he will realize unless someone helps you disappear.”

“He already got what he wanted,” Carolyn said morosely, “Sandra’s gone. Sandra’s probably dead.”

Janet made a sound of reluctant agreement, examining the jammed firing mechanism of her third-best revolver. “Most likely. But the league of assassins are a prideful bunch-discovering someone he thought he’d killed walking around would be an unforgivable insult.”

Carolyn sighed, staring over the top of her glass moodily. “I want him dead.”

“If it were feasible, I’d have his head gift-wrapped for you already,” Janet said, her own tumbler of brandy sitting untouched at her elbow as she attempted to work the bent firing pin out of the revolver. “But involving ourselves with the league of assassins is suicide. Not particularly slow suicide, even.”

“I know that. I’m still here, aren’t I?” Carolyn asked rhetorically. “I still want him dead. I miss Sandra.” Janet leaned forward, waiting until her student’s eyes were on her.

“Sooner or later, an opportunity will arise,” Janet told her seriously. “I promise.”

Carolyn nodded, and set aside the remains of her brandy. “And when it does, I’ll be ready.”

“That’s the spirit, baby girl,” Janet said. “Now come here, and let me teach you how to use a revolver in ways never intended by god or man.”

***

**Tim's birth in the made by hand verse**

“I have a son.” Janie’s voice was breathless, joy creeping out around the edges of her normally controlled voice. “Six pounds, two ounces. He’s so _tiny_.”

Slade’s chest hurt. It’s been a decade since he’s seen his boys. “Congratulations. What are you naming him?”

“Haven’t decided yet. I thought about Slade, but that’d connect my cover identity to my civilian life too easily, so it’s undecided so far.” Janie hummed tunelessly, feet shuffling over flooring, quiet sound of an infant burbling in the background.

“I’m flattered, Janie. How are things at the agency?"

“I haven't killed anyone on our side yet." Janie snorted. "So there's that, at least. How’s Wintergreen?”

“Working on his book, mostly.”

Janie snicked. “Tell him I want an advanced copy. I still want to hear the stories from when you were in the army.”

“Not while I’m still breathing.” Janie was bad enough without hearing stories from his early days.

“Damn. Back to the drawing board.” Slade swore he could hear her smirking, cloth rustling in the background. The infant made a sound of discontent. “I’ve got to go, Slade. See you next month for the Russian job?”

“Until then,” Slade agreed.

***

**Deathstroke the Terminator, issue #1**

Janie leaned on Slade’s desk as Wintergreen carefully hung up the phone. “What’s the word?” she asked, eyebrow cocking. Wintergreen shook his head, watching Slade approach.

“Wintergreen?” Slade asked, catching the look on his old friend’s face. Wintergreen frowned. He would very much prefer not to have to tell Slade this.

“That was our man inside Seekers Inc.,” Wintergreen said reluctantly. “Adeline was shot about an hour ago.”

Janie sucked in a breath, and Slade’s face set. “How is she?” he demanded.

Wintergreen shook his head. “Critical.” Slade went silent, turning away. Janie hesitated, glancing at Wintergreen. Wintergreen flapped his hand at her. _Go. He won’t accept comfort from me._ Janie nodded, shoved off the desk, and approached Slade. She laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Who do you need me to kill, Slade?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Slade shook his head. “Wintergreen. Please bring the car around.”

“Give me a minute to get my rifle. I’m coming with you,” Janie said, tone brooking no argument.

“You're still legally prohibited from traveling within Germany,” Slade reminded her. Janie’s face soured.

“They’ll just have to deal with it. I know _far_ too much for them to do anything.” She glanced over her shoulder as she left the room. “And Slade? If you try to leave without me, I will make you regret it.”

Wintergreen smothered his amused expression when Slade glanced over. “Not a _word_ , Wintergreen.”

“Of course not. I’ll just wait here for Janie, shall I?”

“I am surrounded by armed busy bodies,” Slade grumbled, and stalked off. Wintergreen waited until he was sure Slade was out of ear shot, and gave into his urge to laugh. Janie was payback for every bit of hell Slade had gotten into that Wintergreen had to pull him out of. Justice was sweet.

***

**The Obeah Man**

"Awake yet, Janet?" Dieumene asked in a low voice. Janet groaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

"If I say no, will you go away?"

Dieumene laughed and patted her shoulder. "I'm afraid not. Your companion should be here soon."

Janet opened her eyes reluctantly, wincing in the dim light. She was on a pallet, tucked into a far corner of the cabin where Dieumene staged his Obeah Man trap. Most of his assistants were long gone, their props piled haphazardly on the center table. Dieumene himself had shed his costume, and was wearing one of his brightly colored cotton shirts.

"My husband? And Jeremy?" Janet asked, throat dry and screaming. Dieumene helped her sit up, holding a cup of water to her lips.

"Drink slowly. Jeremy is fine. He has already left with Mirlande for the airport," Dieumene told her.

Janet nodded. "And Jack?"

"I'm sorry," Dieumene said, and Janet's heart clenched.

"Is he dead?" she asked, reaching out to grasp Dieumene's hands despretely.

He shook his head. "Comatose. I miscalculated, Janet. I hadn't thought he'd drink the water. He should wake in...perhaps half a year. Maybe a while after that."

"It's not your fault," Janet said, reluctantly. "I'd assumed similarly." She gathered her feet under her and tried to stand. The world spun. Dieumene caught her before she could fall, cradling her against his chest like a child.

" _Easy_ , Janet. You're still weak," Dieumene told her. "You don't have to do everything yourself."

Janet's head pounded, and she nodded. "I owe you," she told him.

"There aren't debts between friends," Dieumene chided. Janet smiled reluctantly, dry lips cracking.

"Call it a favor willing given then," she said, and allowed herself to lean against one of his shoulders, trusting her friend to guide her.

***

**Explaining Slade's sudden jump off the slippery slope**

The note was written in the usual cipher, folded in half diagonally, twice, and stuck under her apartment’s front door. Two sentences, terse and uninformative.

_Deathstroke has been compromised. DO NOT ENGAGE._

Janet stared at the note for a long time, a wild urge to run rising up in her. Compromised. An unexpected mercy. Compromised could be dealt with. There was no repairing the sort of sudden, senseless decline that would lead to her oldest, dearest friend to decide to abandon all morals and good sense, to treat his newly discovered daughter the way rumor said he did.

The man those rumors spoke of sounded nothing like the man who had taken a bitter, poorly trained green agent under his wing and given her another chance. She had seen no way to salvage that man from this monster that seemed to have taken possession of her friend’s soul.

Compromised though. Compromised could be fixed.

It had been a bare year since ‘Janet Gray’ had made her return to the CIA, and her erstwhile employers had not yet relaxed their guard enough for her to slip free. They wouldn’t give her the opportunity to go on an unscheduled, self-assigned field mission anytime soon, either. Janet would have to leave Slade under the influence of whatever malign force had him, for the moment.

Once the CIA turned their eye from her for long enough, though, Janet could fix this. And in the mean time, there was research to do, resources to gather, people to consult, to determine how and why her friend had been overtaken. Janet could do something about this problem.

She had been planning to make her way to Slade’s side since word of his out of character behavior reached her ear. But for the first time since that awful news, that journey would not end with Slade’s blood on her hands. Janet clutched the note to her chest, and shook, a great weight shedding off her back. Slade would live. She didn’t have to put him down.

 _Just hold on a while longer, Slade,_ Janet thought. _I’m coming._

***

**Rose Wilson**

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Janie asked on the other end of the phone, a dark edge creeping into her voice. Through the disorienting, all-consuming fog that had overtaken him since Addie's death, a part of him went limp with relief. There was... pain spiked, and Slade battled it back. There was something wrong with him.

Slade closed his eye, picturing Janie’s displeased scowl, the malevolent glitter in her eyes as she considered the magnitude of his offense, and the scale of her retaliation. “My daughter Rose is living with me now. I’m teaching her the trade.”

“I thought that’s what you said. How old is she again?” Janie’s voice was pregnant with the promise of violence, and slowly, too slowly, Slade realized why it sounded familiar. That tone never boded well. It meant that something was going to explode unexpectedly, that an extra corpse would show up, or a computer virus was about to turn a multi-million dollar piece of equipment into a very expensive pile of wreckage.

Slade had known her for over twenty years, all her adult life. It shouldn't have taken him that long to remember. 

“Seventeen. And unstable,” Slade admitted, migraine spiking higher each moment he spoke with her. The pain was enough to make Slade regret calling, except-

Except that it was important Janie come. He couldn't remember why, but he knew that he needed her here. He groaned, resting his head against the wall. “I made a mistake, Janie. I've been making a lot of them, lately. Gave her the serum, and it messed with her head.”

There was silence on Janie’s end of the phone for a long time. Then- “How badly?”

“She cut her own eye out to try and please me.” Slade winced at the memory. He hadn’t made a mistake of this magnitude since Joey. Rose could have _died_. She could have bleed out, died of shock, got an infection and succumbed. The fog swelled, pushing at the edges of that thought, trying to drown it, and Slade clung to the sound of Janie's voice like a lifeline.

“Slade,” Janie said, nearly growling, “The only reason I’m not calling you a _complete idiot_ right now is because you’re _missing a few parts_. I’m coming down.”

“We’re in Bludhaven,” Slade told her, and the pain swelled until Slade staggered and half-fell against a wall.

“I’ll be there by morning. Try not to fuck up any worse in the next twelve hours,” Janie said shortly, hanging up before he had a chance to respond. Despite the renew agony, Slade found himself smiling in grim triumph. He’d known her since she was a feral little nineteen year old with a government issued gun. If anyone could take him down, it was her.

There's something wrong with him. But Janie would stop him from doing anything else.

***

**One year before the epilogue**

Janet stared around the room, at the fresh young faces, men and women only a few years older than Janet had been when she started. More men than women, still, but not like when Janet had signed. Back when she had been one of the first woman field operatives.

“Welcome to hell, ladies and gentlemen,” Janet said crisply. “Otherwise known as the first day of training. I am Janet Gray, your instructor, and for the time you are under my authority, _God herself_. I have sole discretion over who continues on into the later weeks of training, and who washes out. If any of you have cute comments you’d like to make, make them now, because this is the only time I won’t throw you out on your ass for disrespecting my authority. Questions?”

A young Latino man in the front row raised his hand. Janet nodded to him. “Speak.”

“What makes you qualified to instruct us? Ma’am,” He asked. Janet favored him with a look of approval.

“Excellent question. You just might have a chance. Your name?”

“Laurence Garcia, ma’am.”

“I see,” Janet said. No ‘thank you’s today. It was all to easy to be pidgeon-holed into the role of pushover, given the slightest hint of weakness. “In answer to your question: I am qualified because I have been an active field agent since I was nineteen. I am one of the oldest active agents in the service. This is not my regular job. I am on leave from the field until I am done with physiotherapy to rebuild the muscle I lost after a metal pole an inch across went through my upper arm on my last mission.”

Several of her new students flinched at the mental image. Janet smiled coolly. “Field work is not a picnic, people. It’s largely boredom interspersed with pain and danger. You will not be James Bond. You will not have a license to kill. You will get hurt, you will suffer, you may die. There is no glory in this life. If you can’t handle that, get up and leave now. The main office always needs more people to handle paperwork.”

 


End file.
